


if it starts with attraction it ends up in trouble

by brandyalexanders2 (brandyalexanders)



Series: easy tiger [1]
Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:27:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27478027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brandyalexanders/pseuds/brandyalexanders2
Summary: cause everybody’s living in a material world (and greg is, more or less, a material girl).
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Series: easy tiger [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2011501
Comments: 14
Kudos: 54





	if it starts with attraction it ends up in trouble

It’s too much.

It’s so plain, though, and that’s what makes Greg’s collar itch. The sweater is downy and delicate. The monarchical shade of emerald is gorgeous, but that’s all it is. No embroidery or ornamentation. Just a dark green sweater that costs rent and groceries and extra spending for an entire month. 

“You like?” 

Tom had insisted on being in the fitting room while Greg changed. He’s perched on the cushy boutique chair in the corner, reserved for bored spouses and shopgirls, Greg assumes. One of his ankles is carefully crossed over the opposite knee.

“The sweater? Yeah, it’s really something. I just wonder, does it actually cost four thousand dollars? Like, did they switch the price tags on accident, with something a little… nicer?”

“You don’t like.” Tom’s face falls just a bit, his posturing smirk shifting to raised eyebrows. He picked it out, after all. 

Greg brings his hand to his elbow and rubs, feels warm textile snugness roll smoothly under his fingers. It’s like insect wings, so fragile and gossamer that he’s worried he might rip it if he’s not on his very best behavior. Every day he spends wrapped up in affluence reminds him that even comfort can create unease. “It’s nice, really,” he says, floundering a bit while he searches for a deflection. “Just. What _is_ cashmere, even, you know?” 

Tom leans back with his arms bent behind his head and pulls an expression that Greg has come to understand as exasperated condescension. “It’s goat fur, Greg. Little baby Himalayan goats, painstakingly slaughtered for your cosmopolitan wardrobe.” 

Even after sinking his incisors into an illicit songbird’s little body, the brutality of wealth is hard for him to stomach. Greg pulls his hand away and looks down, examining the garment with new scrutiny. “Jesus, really? That’s- it seems a little wasteful, Tom, to be honest.” 

“Greg, you moron, I’m fucking with you. Do you know how hard cashmere is to produce? Do you know anything about animal husbandry at all?” 

Greg crosses his arms over his chest, though the admission relaxes him enough to calm his nerves. “My grandpa has a ranch,” he defends, his fingers curling under the hem of the sweater. He gets an amused ‘ah’ in response, an upwards tug of the mouth. Tom’s little jape doesn’t track when he really thinks about it, but a good amount of _rich people things_ seem to carry the air of high stakes, life-or-death. A most dangerous game played over something as simple as a softer than average wool. 

“Come here, let me check the fit,” Tom says, getting up from his chair and straightening his navy cardigan where it’s bunched up from sitting. “Have to make sure it’s suitable for someone of your stature.” 

He trots across the room without complaint and stops just in front of Tom, claps his hands on his thighs and shrugs. “It seems okay to me, I think.” He flashes a small smile. “Usually it looks like my shit shrunk in the dryer, if it’s too small or whatever.” 

They’re standing at an exactly respectable distance. Tom steps over the fine line of decency, hovering just close enough to feel… intimate. Greg swallows. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what Tom wants from him, even if he’s more or less used to his mood swings, but this isn’t all that ambiguous and the impromptu shopping trip is starting to make more sense. 

His hands feel awkwardly placed at his sides until Tom takes his palm in one hand. He runs his fingers over the heel of it, lets them dip underneath the sleeve and forces a cold frisson from Greg. “It’s perfect in the arm,” he murmurs, trailing up to the curve of Greg’s shoulder. 

“Oh,” is all Greg can manage, especially with both of Tom’s broad hands laid open on his chest. “Thank you.” 

Tom is so deliberate when he touches Greg. He makes his presence known through every limb he has, loudly announces his arrival on golden trumpets. He’s veering lower and then he’s got a hold on Greg’s hips. 

Greg doesn’t have an undershirt, so when Tom slips his hand under the sweater it’s right against the skin of his stomach. It’s embarrassing how loudly he gasps over that straightforward contact. Tom has white collar hands and nails that must be manicured. They’re so amiable, skimming over Greg’s tender skin. “The front length is alright,” he informs Greg, “just barely too short.” He withdraws and wraps both of his arms loosely around Greg’s waist. 

The way they’re pressed together would warrant mountains of paperwork, if anyone happened to catch them. 

The idea of being _caught_ ties thick knots in Greg’s stomach. He likes Tom, usually more than he ought to. He likes being with him in the biblical sense enough to do it at a frequency just shy of on the regular. It’s really not so nice of him. He just can’t slap sense into himself long enough to make Tom stop, even if guilt corners him every time they’re through, threatens permanent damage but never quite enough of it. 

How did Tom get Greg’s zipper down without him noticing? 

“It might just be these slacks.” His voice isn’t doing Greg any favors, so callous-but-coaxing. 

“Well. I didn’t bring a change of clothes or anything, just the one outfit,” Greg says, willing his tone to even out and slow down. “I could look, though, if you wanted-”

“All I want is for you to stand still while I get you off,” Tom interrupts him smoothly and tugs at the fitted waistband of his Italian cotton-blend trunks. “Think you can handle that?” 

It sounds like the easiest job in the world at the moment. Greg inhales deeply, takes in the warm yellow lighting of the fitting room, the sleek urban stone shade on the walls. The mirror is spotless and set in a rich black frame. It’s so thoroughly polished he can practically see his reflection in the wood, Tom draped around him and all, their entangled indiscretions impossible to miss. He turns his head away.

“I’m super into it, Tom, for sure, but. Right here?” There’s no gap under the door for anyone to see their legs arranged suspiciously, but there’s the factor of noise, or the possibility that someone might think to check on them while Tom has his hand around Greg’s dick. The idea _isn’t_ appealing in _any way_ , obviously. His breath catches when Tom pets at the flushed skin just above his pubic symphysis. “What if they- like, maybe they’ll start to worry about us in here, and they’ll send someone in, or..?” 

“People get handjobs in fitting rooms every day, Greg. It’s not an uncommon occurrence. They probably have staff on hand just to clean up after this kind of thing.” 

It’s all positive future tense, the inevitability that Tom is going to make Greg come in this space that’s been carelessly sectioned off from the rest of the world. His fingers are skirting dangerously close to first contact and they must be using up all the air in the room for all Greg struggles to catch his breath. It’s getting harder to dig his heels in, or put his foot down, or however the saying goes. Tom uses his free hand to curl an authoritative hand around the back of Greg’s neck. 

“The door’s locked. Now be good, I’ll get dinner tonight if you behave,” he promises, though Greg can’t remember a time where Tom hasn’t covered their tab. He usually orders for Greg and picks out their wine. He’s always pulling these remarkably forward gestures that make Greg wonder what he could ever stand to gain from featherbedding his meek-mannered employee in public places. 

Greg tips his head down so he can leave a soft kiss on Tom’s lips, reaches out for the elbow of his cardigan and weaves it between his fingers. Tom seems pleased with that and hums against his mouth, a happy sound that makes Greg grin and kiss him more deeply. When Tom finally takes him in hand it pulls his joints rigid with tension. Being coveted so fiercely stirs up his greed, leaves him open to the idea of all kinds of carnal sin. 

His hand on Greg’s cock is almost as silky as the sweater he’s cloaked him in. It’s cozy and Greg feels something like sentimental, the slow comfort of fall weather seeping into his skeleton as Tom forces him to pant. It’s cold outside- the kind of weather where he can see the weight of his words in the air as he says them. After Tom has his way with Greg in this upscale 14th Street menswear store they’re going to step onto the streets as partners in crime, conspiring to keep a secret that must already be obvious to anyone who looks their way. 

For now, though, Tom’s stroking at a pace that makes Greg feel dizzy; it keeps him inside his body and out of his head. He’s gripping Tom’s cardigan so tightly, nails searching for purchase against the knitting. He’s trying to keep his groans demure and it’s working mostly, though Tom tightens his grip like a trammel and swipes his thumb over the head of his cock in a way that nearly bucks all of his curated composure. Greg’s coming unfastened. His atoms want to split away from each other, so scandalized by the ginger torment of attentive touch. 

“Um, I think I’m- getting close, but,” he says, short-winded. He lets his hands wind up until he can sling his arms over Tom’s shoulders. “I don’t want to make a mess of the thing before you even buy it, Tom.” He takes for granted the idea that Tom will spend thousands of dollars on him for no discernable reason. 

Tom surges forward to kiss Greg’s exposed collarbone up to his neck and the slope of his jaw. His eyes are leisurely focused, his proud brow arched in contentment. He’s smiling widely but it’s barely a tell- Greg can’t tell if it’s gloating or gracious, though he doesn’t care much with Tom whispering in his ear. 

“If you ruin this sweater, Greg, I’ll just get you another. I’ll buy every last goddamn cashmere sweater they have and fuck you in all of them.” He’s not so good at talking dirty. Greg’s about to ask if it’s supposed to be a threat- it doesn’t sound so bad, anyway- but he’s been cosseted by adoration and it’s swayed his senses out of place. He draws in on himself and lets sweltry satisfaction mount until it’s too hot to take, releases like steam, moans overflowing warmth into Tom’s claiming kiss. 

He looks over the wool worriedly when he can and relaxes when there’s no evidence of any new stains. 

He has to lean against Tom to gather himself. Tom looks almost _earnest_ , as close to genuinely giddy as he ever seems to get. 

“Thank you,” Greg says stupidly, because he’s got the brain and body capacity of a box jellyfish or some other hapless invertebrate. 

Tom laughs. Deciphering whether it’s with him or at him is always the tricky part. “Such a boy scout,” he replies. Greg winces. The teasing reminds him of the moral compass he’s quick to abandon in the face of Tom. He pats Greg on the cheek with his clean hand- thank god- and gently touches his lips with something that Greg could wistfully mistake for reverence. “Pull yourself together, Second Class, you and I have reservations across town.” 

Greg redresses with some haste, threading his belt back through its loops while Tom honest-to-god licks cum off his fingers. He does it with such nonchalance that it makes Greg duck his head, shy at the sight. Shy because he never thought he’d be the type to play co-op masturbation with his boss in public-facing anonymity. Then again, he never expected to be an engaged businessman’s Pretty Woman project, either. 

Life is full of little surprises. 

He finger-combs his own hair out of habit, smoothing any rough edges that might attest to dalliance. The pair of them hardly get a passing glance as they leave. In many ways, Greg is used to being seen, but it’s hard to imagine the world knowing what he’s done and being alright with it. 

Tom takes him to dinner and Tom takes him home. Greg likes the sweater, he really does, but it almost looks nicer resting with Tom’s clothes on his bedroom floor. 

It’s just nice to be as close together as possible, is all. 

**Author's Note:**

> ily guys thank you SO much for hanging out with me. i’m on tomgreg tumblr at cousingregfancam if you want to see my unfiltered thoughts there as well! i was also wondering if there’s like a tomgreg discord? i’m obsessed with them lmao.
> 
> i kinda lost the plot of this one but... greg’s gotta have mixed opinions about pointless excess (in s1 at least) and tom being crazed. i think this is gonna be a two shot? i have more that’s vaguely related but felt out of place as the same thing so? 
> 
> title from too much too often by phantom planet :~) 
> 
> also, service top tom.


End file.
